


Heart of the Forest

by poisongardens



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5338490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisongardens/pseuds/poisongardens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil has made a decision that will change more than he imagines.</p><p>A story about grieving, healing, and falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The first snow

 

The mist clears and she is there.

She feels a thousand years more away than she is. And yet she is here.

"Mell nín."

Her voice fills him with everything he has lost over the relentless course of time. She cannot stay forever; it will never be enough. But her skin is there under his hand, and her eyes are her son's. 

"Avo osto."

"Im gosta."

His voice sounds strange so close to hers.

"Amman?"

He does not need to tell her. And he has known all along why she has come. How could he tell her no?

”Manen? Am man theled?” he asks instead.

She looks so sad, but full of life that she is ready to give to him. She has no need for strength now.

"Estelio ech. Adleitho ech."

He will try, he promises. Can he do anything for Legolas, he asks. She smiles and she is made of starlight. Time is running out.

_Losto vae. Hodo._

 

*

 

”Hodo hí.”

The ones just arrived from Mirkwood begin to unpack what they have brought with them. Most of them have already spent plenty of time here and move around the tents and the stone of Dale like you do in the house of a friend. A few will spend their first winter in this town.

The skies have been grey all morning and as the Elves join in the day's work a thick snowfall is clouding their vision. In a few hours it will be dark as well and the Men will start preparing supper while the Elves go on working for a while. They will all dine together, as this new formed alliance they are.

A year must have passed already, or more; the snow came early last winter. It seems too soon. One year and more since the battle was won and the events of this future were starting to root.

When Thranduil was given reason to question his decision not to linger in Dale and risk more Elven lives, he could not yet see it. Not when he led his army back to find Bard the Bowman in need of aid. When their joined armies rallied together against the last of the Orcs inside the city walls no one was thinking of tomorrow, but this was true; much had changed already then, and quickly so.

They parted that day in silence with only a glance shared between them as they went their separate ways after the battle. Thranduil did not seen him again that day; the Men mourned their losses, and the Elves mourned theirs. Only the next day as the Woodland elves were assessing the state of their army did the Bowman appear before him.

“The people of Laketown are grateful towards the elves of the Woodland Realm,” he said.

“They need not be,” Thranduil answered.

“You helped them,” he insisted. “You spared many of their lives.”

More could have been spared, Thranduil wanted to tell him. And there was a question in his mind that he did not want to give any room. Would they have come, had they not been there for treasure and a wish for something very similar to revenge? Would it have been enough to hear that Dale was under attack?

“I am sorry for those of your people who gave theirs,” was what he said.

The Bowman inclined his head.

“You have my sorrow as well.”

Sorrow for lives lost. Sorrow for dying upon the edge of a sword. A thought appeared then, that perhaps the mistake had been in coming to these lands at all, and not keeping his people safe. Another question: was he not their king?

But such a thought had to be in vain, unjust as it was and only wasted wishing. The right thing to do had been done, after much wrong. All that was left in the end was grief. The world seemed to hold so much of it.

“Brighter days are coming,” Bard said then with a faint smile, and left.

The quick healing of Elves sent Thranduil’s army on their return journey that same night. People were lined up on the streets of Dale to quietly offer their farewells. A light snow fell through the frosty air. If brighter days are coming, the Elvenking thought, they are welcome.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mell nín" - My beloved  
> "Avo osto" - Do not fear  
> "Im gosta" - I am afraid  
> "Amman?" - "Why?"  
> "Manen? Am man theled?" - How? For what purpose?  
> "Estelio ech. Adleitho ech." - Trust yourself. Set yourself free  
> "Losto vae. Hodo" - Sleep well. Rest  
> "Hodo hí" - Rest here


	2. A new year

 

Unchanging, some time passed after the war. Less, perhaps, than it seemed. A strange and unusual thing in these times: for all of Mirkwood to be holding its breath like that. Even the darkness in its homes of moss and brook was watching silently as the Elves let the days and the nights go by.

Grieving, as it were. Looking to the stars for solace, if not answers. Singing songs of remembrance and of peace to find them all, once they found their voices.

Word came from Dale one day, that the Men were inviting the Elves of the Woodland Realm to join in a celebration. Their new year was upon them, and there was to be a feast; rejoicing in victory, honouring the dead, and marking a new beginning. It was in seven days, and the Elves were most welcome.

“We will go in five days time,” Thranduil announced. “We will bring food and drink, and we will help with the preparations.”

Another announcement waited on the back of his tongue as they travelled to Dale, early on the fifth day since the invitation: a decision he had made. The horses trudged along the frost-bitten road with vigour, glad for the journey, restless now to stretch their legs outside the gloom of the forest. The winter sun rose white.

 

Their arrival in the dim afternoon dusk caused both surprise and delight.

“My lord, Thranduil.”

Bard bowed his head and Thranduil returned the gesture.

“We did not expect you for another two days.”

“We want to offer our help, in regards to the celebration,” Thranduil explained. “I hope we will not be of more trouble than use.”

“Not at all,” Bard said quickly. “I am glad to see you.”

Thranduil looked at him, taken aback, just for a moment. Then Bard spoke again.

“Come, let's get you settled in.”

The animals were led off by some of Bard's people, and the Elves were shown to the humble lodgings appointed to them.

“It is hardly suitable,” Bard remarked as he joined them again. “And not yet in order. Not fit for a King by any means; if you like, you shall have the King's Quarters set up for you before the evening.”

“I will be perfectly comfortable here. Thank you,” Thranduil said.

“If you are quite sure.”

“I am. Quite sure. You are most generous.”

“It is the Mirkwood Elves who are generous – I couldn't count the barrels in your carriages!”

Thranduil offered a fleeting smile. “A token of our joy to be included in your celebrations.”

“Ah, well, joy is with us, as well. And much needed, in these times.”

Thranduil fell silent, gazing at him through pale eyes, thinking how strange it all was. The Elves' rooms were made homely as the evening wore on and turned darker still. The Elves helped the Men prepare a heartening meal with crops from Mirkwood, wine from their cellar. Later, as the children of Dale were falling asleep to the sound of song, the black clouds of night were carried off to reveal the deep blue velvet of the sky, needled with glimmering stars. The Elves told lovingly of their stories, and the Men told tales of their own. Some wandered about together, talking easily as though they were all old friends.

Bard approached Thranduil, where he was standing on a high shelf of the city, amongst all this. He did not turn from where he was lightly leaning against the low half-circle wall when he heard the footsteps behind him.

“It seems the stars are rushing out to greet you,” said the Man. “We have had only cloudy nights for so long I had started to forget their shine.”

Thranduil turned.

“My lord,” Bard added, with a smile and a shallow bow.

“What beautiful words,” said Thranduil. “Let us hope the stars have returned to stay a while.”

“I very much do.”

Thranduil waited a moment, observing him. Then he gestured for him – a delicate wave of a hand – to join him by the view of the city and the fields beyond.

“I was not sure I would ever see Dale inhabited again,” Thranduil said after some silence had passed where they stood side by side.

“I am sure I did not think I would,” said Bard, looking out with wonder across the stone of his city.

Thranduil looked at him turning his head only. “I have something I wish to tell you. I thought of announcing it with both our people present, but it seems right I should tell you first.”

“Oh,” Bard let out in surprise.

“I intend to aid you in the rebuilding,” Thranduil told him. “My people agree; you deserve all the help you can get.”

“Oh, no, I couldn't possibly-”

“I have made up my mind. It is only right.”

Bard looked at him, in bewilderment, searching for words. “The friendship between Dale and Mirkwood I will gladly treasure,” he said at last.

Thranduil spoke before he could continue.

“Then you will accept this gift. As a friend.”

The word seemed to Thranduil to float in the cold air.

“One king to another,” he said then, with something of a smile.

“Ah,” Bard laughed. “I should like 'friend', better.”

“You will accept it, then?”

“I will.”

 

The day before the celebration went quickly by. A blur of moving things this way and that, of decorating the tortured city, of cooking, of cleaning, of planning, rehearsing and waiting. A pleasant time, everyone seemed to think. Bard was needed everywhere, impossibly running between responsibilities and favours, but even he had the look of someone who is enjoying themselves immensely, Thranduil thought.

New Year's Eve came with a heavy snowfall. Fires burned bright in all three hearths of the Great Hall: two at each long side, and one blazing above and behind the empty King's Throne. Food that would have satisfied twice as many as there were weighed down the two long tables and the many smaller ones closest to the archway leading out to the Main Hallway. Laughter and cheerful talk filled the warm Hall all the way to the high ceiling. The windows were almost completely white with snow.

Bard told of the Elves' resolution to help the Men in their need, and was met with a tremendous applause of gratitude. Thranduil rose from his place at the top end of one of the long tables, nodding in answer to Bard where he stood somewhere along the middle of the line of clapping people.

“We were allies in war,” he said with a clear voice when the noise had lessened. “We shall continue to be allies in peace, as well. That is our wish.”

“Then we shall see to it that your wish is granted,” said Bard, raising a gilt cup in the air to a new wave of loud assent.

The room went back to its earlier state, but it only lasted a short while. Some felt it before others: the slight vibration, the oncoming sensation of unease like disturbed water. The ripples grew. Then a child stood up. Not a child, perhaps; no, she must be closer to adulthood, Thranduil thought, the girl who walked from her seat to stand at the top of the Hall, in front of the Throne, silently commanding every pair of eyes present to follow. Her eyes were just like Bard's. His eldest daughter.

Low, grave, but strong came her voice, forcing its way to the ends of the room. Old words in an old melody, remembering the Men lost in the battle. The song reached its end, then started anew with the voices of all the Men in the Hall, growing, until it was shaking the earth beneath them. Heavy silence filled its place as the girl walked back to her place beside her father.

Thranduil couldn't recall when it had happened, but sometime between the song and the present moment the air had lightened, cheerful music had begun playing, and people were dancing, talking, telling stories of all kinds. Still lost in his own mind, he quietly rose and found his way outside. Not a wind was disturbing the quiet of the deep winter night, and no snow was falling now onto the embedded streets. The half-grown moon and its myriad of stars, lingering still over Dale like friendly, watchful eyes, were throwing silver all upon them. The snow was millions of tiny white stones.

The city is resting, Thranduil thought. For how long? How long before the next storm? It will come, and neither Man nor Elf will have the power to stop its marching. Breathless and beautiful it is, waiting and hoping in vain for the charge to hold off. It does not know. It is only here and now.

The next morning they would go back to the forest, and the pillars and halls of Mirkwood. Thranduil thought of finding Bard to remind him of this, but waited, thinking he should at least let him enjoy the night until it was over. Before he could wait much longer, however, he found himself walking towards the Bowman in the snow.

“Good evening,” said Bard when he got closer.

“Good evening,” Thranduil replied. “I am only catching a few breaths of winter air.”

“It is lovely out.”

Thranduil nodded once.

“You are leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“You can stay longer, if you like.”

“That is very kind of you. But we must go,” Thranduil said, then, “With our returning so soon, you would only grow tired of our presence.”

Bard laughed and Thranduil smiled briefly.

“I understand your need to return to your home.”

“If there is anything you need, before we leave, or while we are away-”

“I could never ask that. I will handle things in the meantime,” Bard said.

“Of course.” Thranduil paused. “You have your people's faith. And rightly so.”

“Thank you for saying so.” Bard smiled. “You know I am not really their king?”

“I do.”

“Good.” His smile is warm in the cold.

Thranduil thought to argue with him, because by all definition of the word, he was already King of Dale, rightful heir to the Throne. But he did not. Some dark weariness was weighing on his heart. A sharp howl of the wind swept past the high part of the city where they were standing.

“Do you hear that?” Bard looked up, as if searching the wind with his eyes. “Winds of change, perhaps.”

Thranduil felt the weight on his heart pulling him down with it. “Or just the harsh winds of winter.”

 

 


End file.
